


A Christmas Conundrum

by whiskyandwildflowers



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Sex, Auror Partners, Comeplay, Enthusiastic Consent, Fluff and Smut, Friends to Lovers, Humor, M/M, Minor Mention of Pansy/Ginny, Pining, Riding, Romance, Secret Santa, exchanging gifts, post-sex fingering, working together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-13
Updated: 2018-12-13
Packaged: 2019-08-25 00:07:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16650490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiskyandwildflowers/pseuds/whiskyandwildflowers
Summary: Draco can’t help wanting a stern word with whoever started the insane notion that the Christmas hols are the most wonderful time of the year.





	A Christmas Conundrum

**Author's Note:**

> For kitty_fic! You gave me so many wonderful prompt ideas to work with, and I hope I managed to come up with something you enjoy! :) Happy holidays!
> 
> Thank you so much to restlessandordinary for the beta! <3

 

  
Secret Santa is the most ludicrous Muggle tradition, in Draco’s opinion. As if they don’t have enough to do at the holidays as it is without having to buy a silly gift for a random coworker.

“You didn’t think it was a stupid tradition when we all did it last year. You’re just cross because you drew Potter’s name and are going to absolutely agonize over this gift because you’re _you_ , and also because you’re in love with him,” Pansy cackles from where she’s irritatingly perched on the edge of Draco’s desk. Draco hates her. In this moment, Pansy Parkinson is the worst person he has ever met, and he had literally lived with Voldemort.

“Will you keep it down,” Draco hisses and flicks the door closed with his wand. “Must you _bask_ in this? For fuck’s sake.”

“Relax, darling. Although, if you’re this worked up about him finding out about your _feelings_ you need to work on your subtlety,” Pansy says. “You look at him like you want to simultaneously fellate him in the middle of the street and also have a million of his earnest Saviour babies. It’s appalling.”

The tips of Draco’s ears start to burn. “That’s absolutely ridiculous. Who did you pick anyway?”

“Yes, so ridiculous,” Pansy says with an eye roll, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “I got Corner. I mean, I could just show up at his door dressed like a sexy Father Christmas, but he would probably die of a heart attack, so that’s probably more of a gift to the entire Auror Department than to him. There’s an idea for you—”

“Pansy, I swear to Merlin, if you finish that train of thought, our friendship finishes now. And besides,” Draco sniffs, “I know of someone who might be a little annoyed with you if you do that.” The office door swings open before Pansy can give any kind of retort or suggest any more absurd and inappropriate gift ideas, but Draco’s relief is short-lived.

“Hello, Potter! For once, your input would be welcome. Tell me, is showing up on someone’s doorstep dressed in a racy holiday costume a good Secret Santa gift?” Pansy grins as Potter, looking bewildered and carrying two cardboard cups from the canteen, turns a shade of scarlet and Draco focuses very hard on not swallowing his tongue.

“Er, I dunno, Parkinson. I think it depends on the recipient,” Potter starts.

Pansy leers. “Is that something you might be interested in receiving?” 

“Pansy, go harass someone else. Please. I am begging you.” Draco is not above pleading in order to find the end of this conversation.

“Um, I guess then it would depend on the giver of the gift.” Potter scrubs at the back of his neck, and Draco steadfastly ignores how endearing his embarrassment is.

Pansy hops off the desk and makes her way to the door. “You’ve given me a lot to think about, Potter. Bye, Draco.” Pansy winks and wiggles her fingers as Draco glares daggers at her.

“You’d think after seven years working in the same department I’d be used to her, uh, brand of humour,” Potter laughs as he makes his way to his desk, dropping one of the cups off to Draco in the process. Draco wants nothing more than to press him up against the first available surface and snog him senseless. “I brought you a tea. Earl Grey, milk and two sugars.”

Because of course thoughtful Potter knows Draco’s tea order by heart. Draco raises the cup in a gesture of thanks that he desperately hopes comes off as casual.

“Yes, she definitely does not know how to read a room.” Although Draco thinks she actually knows how to read the room a little too well, and that’s the problem.

“So, did you get someone good? For the Secret Santa thing,” Potter asks as he starts to rifle through some files, eventually giving up and summoning the file he needs wandlessly. His effortless displays of wandless magic—among other things—are extremely distracting.

Draco has absolutely no idea how to answer his question. “All things considered, I suppose I could’ve done worse. You?”

“Yeah, you know I’m actually kind of excited this year!” Potter turns a bit pink and sends a beaming smile to Draco, who is fighting for an air of indifference against the hot tendrils of jealousy swirling around in the pit of his stomach.

“Well don’t sprain your remaining brain cell trying to manage a thoughtful gift,” Draco drawls as he sets down his tea and prepares to make a swift exit to get some much-needed air. It’s a low blow, and his heart twists at Potter’s hurt expression. But, it’s better than listening to Potter talk about whatever devastatingly heartfelt gift he’s excited about buying for his wretched mystery recipient. “I’m off to see Robards—be back in a bit,” Draco snaps as he sweeps out of their office and strides through the hallway, the air cool against his face.

Draco can’t help wanting a stern word with whoever started the insane notion that the Christmas hols are the most wonderful time of the year.

* * *

 

Pansy wasn’t completely right in her assessment of Draco’s distress—the trouble isn’t deciding what gift to give Potter. Draco already has the perfect gift for him. The problem is that he doesn’t want to give it to him, because it would basically be the equivalent of Draco presenting his still-beating heart on a platter with a note saying _Happy Christmas, this is yours and only yours forever._

Draco has restored Potter’s tapestry. Well, not Potter’s tapestry precisely, but the Black family tapestry. He’s seen the version in Potter’s house with various family members scorched off, and he knows that Potter has been looking for a way to fix and restore it.

So, Draco did it. Replicated might be a better word than restored, but now Draco has in his possession an exact, unblemished copy of the original tapestry hanging in Potter’s home.

Technically, it wasn’t meant to be a Secret Santa gift. It was something Draco wanted to do for Potter, and drawing his name for the holiday exchange was both the perfect excuse to give it to him and a recipe for disaster.

It took two years of research and some finicky charmwork to duplicate the magic of the tapestry. Draco also took it upon himself to add Potter, Draco’s cousin Teddy, and all of the additions that should have made it onto the tapestry over the years. Draco is also on the tapestry, and it hurts him a little every time he looks at it and runs his fingertips over the aspects of his life and his family that are intertwined with Potter’s.

It was so much easier when Draco had tried to convince himself that this whole fiasco was an attempt to become more intimately acquainted with Potter’s mouth. And hands. And cock. In his defense, having to watch Potter’s long, tan fingers wrapped around various coffee cups and quills has been absolute torture. But really, Draco knows the part of Potter that he really wants to become intimately acquainted with is his heart. It’s completely disgusting.

Draco’s been finished with this project for a while, but how do you give a gift like this to someone? It’s too personal, it’s too much, and how could Potter not know how Draco feels with a gift like that?

Unless the givers can remain anonymous. Draco’s gift is appallingly personal, but he also doesn’t think Potter would necessarily guess that it’s from him. Weasley’s an Auror too, and Finnegan, and Longbottom. It’s not out of the realm of possibility that one of his friends, or an adoring fan in the department, would take the time and effort to give him a ridiculously personal and meaningful gift.

And thus, after a few glasses of whisky, Draco hatches his desperate plan. It’s a fairly simple solution, and he doesn’t know how it didn’t occur to him sooner.

“Susan, just the person I wanted to see!” Draco breezes into Susan Bones’s office the next morning and smiles his most winning smile at her.

“Well seeing as you’re in my office, Draco, I would assume that’s the case.” She’s nothing if not observant, Draco has to give her that. “What do you want?” Susan asks impatiently without looking up from her paperwork.

“Cutting right to the chase, then, very direct. Okay, I know you’re in charge of the office Secret Santa exchange and I had an idea that I thought might be….fun,” Draco starts.

“You had an idea you thought might be _fun_ ,” Susan echoes, staring at Draco with a blank expression. This is perhaps not going very well.

“Yes! Fun. It might be kind of...festive, if we maybe leave the gift givers anonymous this year! People could guess who gave them their gift if they wanted, but...yes, anonymous.” This wasn’t Draco’s most eloquent pitch, but hopefully it would do the job.

“Fine. Yeah, that could be interesting.” Susan stops and studies Draco with a furrowed brow and shrewd expression. “So, who do you have? It’s obvious that whoever it is, you’re fairly desperate to keep them from knowing their gift is from you.” Fuck, she’s good. Or Draco’s just that obvious, but he prefers thinking that Susan is just that observant.

“That's not—it doesn’t matter. But, thank you—I’ll owe you one.”

“And I’ll come to collect on that,” Susan says, giving him a small smile.

Susan sends out a memo that afternoon explaining the new anonymous portion of the Secret Santa exchange. Everyone would place their gifts under the tree in the Ministry Atrium, and the identity of the gift-giver would be concealed. On the following Friday, right before the holiday break, everyone could approach the tree and their gift would be revealed to them to be picked up.

What Draco didn’t anticipate is that Potter is absolutely furious. As soon as Susan’s memo lands in their office, he crumples the pink piece of parchment in his fist with a livid scowl.

“This is such utter shit! Keeping our gifts anonymous and changing the rules a week from when we’re supposed to exchange them—what if we chose a very specific gift? What if we want the recipient to know who it’s from?” Potter is livid and Draco’s jealousy is palpable. Stupid Potter and his stupid recipient.

“Well I guess you’ll just have to tell them afterwards. Or they’ll guess. It’s not the end of the world, Potter,” Draco snaps.

“I—I don’t think they’ll guess and it’s...well I s’pose it’s not important. Maybe I was expecting too much from this gift exchange,” Potter says in a resigned and sad sort of way. Draco wants to wrap him in a blanket and bring him hot chocolate, and those kinds of soft urges are, frankly, unbearable.

“I’m sure whoever it is will be delighted with your offering,” Draco says without any bite. They’re both truly tragic—pining away and pinning their happiness on a workplace Secret Santa exchange. Of course, Potter doesn’t have the added bonus of being desperately in love with his Auror partner who is also his gift recipient, which adds quite the festive layer of angst to Draco’s pathetic situation.

“They’re...tricky,” is all Potter offers in terms of an explanation. A lime green scrap of parchment flies into their office, which usually means Weasley is in need of a Gryffindor group hug, or whatever it is they all do when they’re together.

“I’m heading out to meet Ron and Seamus, are you sure you don’t want to come?” Potter asks as he always does, winding a burgundy scarf around his throat as he gets ready to go out into the cold. Draco can picture Potter, pink-cheeked and breathless in the cold on his way to the pub, and it does awful and cruel things to his insides.

“I don’t fancy spending an evening with that overly freckled git you call a best mate,” Draco sneers, even though he wants nothing more than to spend the rest of the evening with Potter, pressed close together in the confines of a booth at the pub.

“Ron’s not the only one who’ll be there, you know,” Potter starts. He clears his throat, looking a bit flustered. “I mean, Hermione’ll be there later on too maybe, and you two get on a bit now. And if you grab Parkinson, I’m sure Ginny will somehow make her way there, because you know how they are…” Potter trails off.

“Unfortunately, I do know how they are. As much as I would love to torture Pansy about her flirtations with the only tolerable Weasley, I can’t tonight.”

A line appears on Potter’s forehead, but he recovers quickly and it smoothes away. “Alright then, suit yourself. Have a nice weekend, Malfoy.” Potter shoots him a crooked grin with a little mock salute on his way out, and Draco lets his head thunk down on his desk once he’s out of sight.

* * *

Draco is on edge for the entire next week leading up to the gift exchange. He’s been carrying around the tapestry shrunken down in his pocket all week, but hasn’t had the courage to drop it off yet. It doesn’t help that Potter is even more attentive than normal—bringing Draco extra treats from the canteen while he does their paperwork and staying late with him in the evenings.

“You know I can help with some of that,” Potter says as he deposits a gingerbread scone on Draco’s desk on Thursday morning.

“Yes, well, it’s faster if I just do it—you don’t know my system,” Draco says, breaking off a chunk of scone and licking some icing off of his fingertips. Potter clears his throat and drops his gaze.

“That’s because you won’t explain it,” Potter mumbles, a slight flush creeping across his cheeks. The truth is, Potter hates paperwork and Draco loves it—he loves the process and the order and loves seeing each file be wrapped up and finished. And secretly, Draco likes being the one to help Potter and take something that he finds stressful off his plate. No one would consider cataloging evidence heroic, but if Draco can’t have Potter, he’ll settle for being the one to make his day a little less awful from time to time.

Before Draco can get too lost in his Potter-related thoughts and angsting, Robards’s silvery lion Patronus bursts into their office interrupting their quiet afternoon.  
  
“I need you two on location in Cardiff immediately. Portkey’s all ready. Prepare to be away all weekend. Be ready in 15.” The message was curt with barely enough information to get by, but that wasn’t unusual.

“A weekend away in Wales—fun,” Potter laughs as he gathers his bag and robes.

“A weekend away in Wales for work,” Draco replies with an eye roll, determined not to focus on how much he would love a legitimate weekend away with Potter that wasn’t work-related, although he wouldn’t mind if it still included their Auror robes.

* * *

It was a gruelling few days. They’d been staking out a ring of animal traffickers with a pair of Aurors from the local Cardiff branch in a Muggle delivery van. Beyond their actual work commitments—which had also included wrangling a group of escaped Nifflers—spending their stakeout time in an enclosed space with Potter was almost too much to handle. It had been too easy for them to ignore the other two Aurors with them, bickering, hypothesizing, and chatting away like they always do. Every time he’s with Potter it’s like they’re the only two in the room.

They had even fallen asleep against each other. Draco had woken up with one arm tucked inside the front of Potter’s robes and Potter’s head pressed against his shoulder, his ridiculous nest of hair tickling Draco’s neck and cheek. He had let himself bask in the moment a little bit, feeling fond and tender and warm, before wrenching himself away and startling Potter awake.

Now, Draco is completely exhausted and wants nothing more than to soak in the bath with a glass of wine and to wipe the memory of the way Potter’s hair smells—piney and a little bit sweet—completely from his mind.

As they’re trudging tiredly back to their office in the early early hours of Saturday morning to drop off their file from the stakeout, they pass the enormous Christmas tree in the Ministry atrium. The silvery lights twinkle in the darkness, making it look like the tree is wrapped in starlight.

“Oh, fuck!” Potter scrubs his hand over his face and grimaces, darting a look over at Draco. “I forgot to drop my gift off before we left.” And as he says this, the shrunken tapestry that Draco’s been carrying around all week burns a hole in his pocket. Draco hadn’t dropped his off either.

Potter approaches the tree with an expectant look. “I mean, I’ll have to do something about mine. Maybe owl it to, er, to them.” He waves his hand in front of the tree in order to summon his gift, but of course nothing happens. Potter frowns a little and tries again. It’s agony, and Draco has a choice: he can let Potter think nobody got him a gift, or—

“That’s not going to work,” Draco mumbles, and fishes around in his pocket.

“What d’you mean it’s not going to work? Was there like a time limit or something? Did we miss out?” Potter keeps waving his hand fruitlessly in front of the tree.

Draco pinches the bridge of his nose, and sighs. “It’s not going to work because I have your gift, and I also forgot to put it there before we left. So. Here.” Draco thrusts the small package wrapped in silver paper and tied with gold twine at Potter quickly, as if this wasn’t the worst moment of his life and precisely the thing he was most trying to avoid.

“Enlarge it when you get home—I have to go. Happy Christmas, Potter.” Draco turns on his heel and speeds away to the Apparition point in the Ministry before he can even register the look on Potter’s face.

* * *

It’s three o’clock in the morning and Draco is wide awake with a glass of whisky in hand. After the past few days on assignment he should have been asleep once he came through the door, but since he’d fucked up his entire life as he knew it, sleep would be an issue.

How could he have been so careless? He’d wavered and hesitated all week because he was too cowardly to drop off his gift, and now he was going to have to deal with Potter likely—and correctly—knowing how he feels. And Draco would have to listen to Potter letting him down easy with a nice, earnest, and awkward speech about how it wasn’t going to happen and Draco would have to transfer partners—or leave town altogether.

As Draco contemplates possibly leaving the country completely—the new year is the ideal time for a new start, after all—his wards chime and there’s a small knock at his door.

Draco cautiously looks through the peephole. Standing on his stoop in the cold is Potter, pink-cheeked and breathless with snowflakes scattered in his dark hair, looking bright and handsome the way he usually does in Draco’s fantasies—the way he looks to Draco every day. Draco groans and thunks his head against the doorframe. Apparently the “I’m sorry that you’re in love with me, that’s terribly unfortunate” speech was going to come right now.

“Malfoy?” Potter asks through the door. “Draco, I know you’re there. I can hear you. Let me in—it’s fucking freezing out here!”

Draco opens the door slowly and Potter breezes past him, going straight to the living room where a fire was lit. He removes his coat, throwing it onto the sofa before Draco can protest, and starts warming his hands by the fire.

“You fixed it,” Potter starts in a small voice, back turned to Draco.

Draco swallows thickly. “Yes, I did.”

Potter turns to face him, his eyes shining. “How did you do it? I’ve had so many people come and try. I thought it was,” Potter stops as his voice cracks a little, “I thought it was ruined for good.”

“It was nothing. A couple of years of research and some charmwork. A touch of blood magic since, well, my blood is also mixed in with it. Not a huge deal. Really.” Draco can’t look at Potter in the eye and fidgets with the drink still in his hand, swirling the liquid around and knocking the ice against the side of the tumbler.

“Years?” Potter’s gaze is hot and intense. “It’s beautiful. It’s the most beautiful and brilliant thing I’ve ever seen, and probably the best present I will ever get. This isn’t just a nice gift you get a coworker, though. So, why?”

Draco doesn’t even know where to begin to answer that. “Like I said, it took some research. I saw it in your house and it seemed like a good puzzle to solve.” Draco’s face is heating under Potter’s scrutiny.

Potter hums skeptically. “No, Draco. I’m not doing this. I’m not going to play this game with you, not right now. So, why did you do it? Why did you do this for me?” Potter’s using his patented Auror voice, the one that commands respect and demands attention, and it cracks something inside of Draco and stirs up heat low in his belly.

“Potter—you’re not oblivious. I think you know why I did it.” Draco finally lifts his eyes to meet Potter’s. “And I know—because of the gift you were stressing over—I know there’s someone else. It’s fine. This is all fine. I don’t—I’m not expecting anything from you. So,” Draco trails off and downs the remnants of the drink he’d been clutching, setting the glass down forcefully onto the coffee table. “Whatever speech you had prepared to let me down easy, you can save it. Another gift from me to you.”

Silence stretches between them until Potter finally breaks it, taking a few steps towards Draco and invading his personal space. “You know, if you had bothered to wait instead of basically throwing your gift at me and running away, you would have discovered that there was a gift missing for you too. The one that I forgot to put there.” Potter produces a package, messily wrapped in red paper from his pocket, then wandlessly enlarges it. He runs a hand through his hair. “It’s not—it’s not like your gift. I don’t think anyone in the world could top that one. So, thanks a lot for setting that precedent,” he says with a laugh. Instead of giving the gift to him, Potter sets it on the coffee table next to Draco’s discarded glass.

Potter is a little bit shorter than Draco, so they’re not quite standing nose-to-nose, and Draco longs to close the gap between them but is rooted to the spot. Potter grabs his wrist, tan fingers contrasting starkly against Draco’s pallor.

“It’s been torture, sharing that office with you and watching you work. Merlin, I—I can’t even stand it sometimes. You’re so fucking smart, and I know you know that, but I just needed to say it. And fuck, the way you look. So put together all the time. It’s driving me mad!” Potter’s eyes burn bright in the dim firelight.

Draco moves to cup Potter’s cheek, rubbing his thumb against his cheekbone as Potter leans into the touch.

“It’s always been about you, hasn’t it, Potter? Harry,” Draco murmurs, and before he can say anything further, Potter is surging forward, closing the distance left between them and kissing Draco so thoroughly it leaves him breathless.

Potter tastes like peppermint, and Draco threads his hands through his riotous hair. It’s as soft as he’d imagined and the whole experience is surreal and slightly terrifying. There was a time when Draco had been accustomed to getting exactly what he wanted, but those days were far behind him and it had been a very long time since he’d allowed himself to _want_ something or someone as much as this. And it was a different thing entirely to actually get it.

Potter’s hands snake to the front of Draco’s thin pyjama bottoms, his palm moving against Draco’s hardening cock. Draco gasps into his mouth, and Potter pulls away.

“S’this okay?” He asks, breath scorching against Draco’s ear. In response, Draco Apparates them directly into his bedroom, and Potter gives him a look that is positively feral. He yanks off the long sleeved t-shirt Draco had been wearing and starts to mouth a trail from Draco’s neck down to his chest, while working his hand into Draco’s pyjamas and stroking his cock. Potter’s teeth scrape against his nipple and he bucks up into his hand with a gasp.

“F-fuck, Harry, are you trying to kill me?” Draco manages to get out, while simultaneously trying to rid Potter of his jumper.

“I love it when you say my name like that. You never say my name,” Potter says desperately as he swipes his thumb over the tip of Draco’s cock. Draco fumbles with the button on Potter’s jeans, determined to get his hand inside. Potter bats his hand away, removes his own hand from Draco’s cock, and pulls down his trousers.

“Get on the bed,” Potter instructs, standing in front of Draco in a ridiculous pair of red pants with little Santa hats all over them. The image should not be working as well for Draco as it is, although the sizeable bulge of Potter’s cock only helps matters.

Draco moves backwards to the bed, shoving his own plain green pants off.

“How do you—” Potter starts to say, but Draco cuts him off.

“I want you to fuck me, Potter. I have been dying for you to fuck me, to feel you inside of me.” Draco’s face is burning at his boldness, but he opens his legs slightly as an invitation. The look of pure lust on Potter’s face is overwhelming, and he stumbles a little while removing his pants in his haste to get over to the bed.  
Potter moves on top of Draco, pressing him flat on his back, and conjures a handful of lube—Draco’s favourite display of his wandless magic to date. He then takes both of their cocks in hand and starts stroking them, making a mess of them both with precome and lube.

“Are protection charms and things okay? What do you prefer?” Potter asks breathlessly, continuing to stroke them while Draco writhes against him.

“Protection charms are fine,” Draco starts. “But no stretching charms. I want that done by hand.” The look that Potter gives him is both searing and reverential, and almost makes up for the fact that Draco has literally asked Potter to work him open with his fingers.

He stops stroking them then in order to properly cast the protection spells, and Draco instantly misses the heat and the hot slide of Potter’s hand and cock. When Potter tentatively rubs him with a slick finger, Draco pushes against it desperately, needing to feel the press of it inside of him.

“F-fuck, Draco, you look so good like this, God,” Potter babbles as he adds a second finger, fucking Draco in earnest with them. The stretch and burn of Potter’s fingers is better than Draco had imagined, and he arches his back in time with their thrusts. Potter is _good_ at this, stroking his prostate and gently curling his fingers inside of him. Draco’s cock is so hard and steadily leaking against his stomach. He doesn’t want to touch himself, afraid that it will all be over too quickly.

“Enough, Potter. Please, just get inside of me, I’m ready,” Draco moans, and when the blunt head of Potter’s cock nudges against him, he is almost ready to _beg_ for it outright if Potter doesn’t get a move on.

Potter curls an arm underneath Draco’s back as he guides himself inside, sobbing out a little moan. Draco wraps his legs around Potter to draw him in, needing him as close as possible and as deep inside as he can possibly get.

“You’re so hot, so tight, Merlin, _Christ_ I want to wreck you,” Potter gasps filthily in Draco’s ear.

“G-go on then,” Draco replies, arching against him and sliding their sweat-soaked chests together. He grazes his nails along Potter’s back and biceps, feeling his muscles straining with effort and tension, and Potter groans, fucking into him and grabbing for Draco’s cock where it’s caught between their stomachs.

But Draco wants to ruin Potter just as much. Pushing Potter off and flipping them around, Draco sinks down onto Potter’s cock until he’s fully seated, mesmerized by Potter’s flushed and wrecked expression. His eyes are heavily lidded, his mouth kiss-bitten and swollen. Draco moves on top of him, his thighs burning as he rides Potter’s cock. Potter’s hands are everywhere, one hand thumbing the head of Draco’s cock and the other threading into his hair.  
“I’m—Draco, I’m close,” Potter breathes, the tension evident on his face as he holds back his orgasm.

“Do it, come for me Harry, fill me with your come, I want to feel it,” and Draco doesn’t know where this is coming from, but something inside Potter snaps as he surges forward, biting into Draco’s shoulder as his orgasm pulses deep inside of him.

Potter flips them then, sliding his cock out and replacing it with his fingers, fucking Draco with them and pushing his release back inside.

“Touch yourself, Draco. I want to see you touch yourself,” Potter practically commands in a rough voice, and Draco bucks against him shamelessly, stroking himself in time with each thrust of Potter’s fingers until he comes all over himself with a low and broken moan.

Draco is a complete and utter mess, covered in his own come with Potter’s trickling out from inside of him. The only sound in the room is their heavy breathing until Potter casts a much-needed cleaning charm over them both. His magic always feels warm and safe, like a cherished blanket or a relaxing bath, and Draco feels especially vulnerable now after everything they’ve done.

“I can see the gears turning in your head,” Potter whispers, wrapping Draco in his arms and pressing a kiss to his temple.

“This is… a lot,” Draco starts, not really knowing what he wants to say.

“But it feels right though?” Potter sounds hesitant, tensing against Draco’s back.

“It does,” Draco murmurs. “I think it might be everything.” Potter melts against Draco and doesn’t ask him to clarify. He doesn’t need to.

* * *

They spent the entirety of their holidays together, minus a brief interlude on Christmas Day for Draco to see his mother and for Potter—Harry—to spend time with an abundance of Weasleys.

Harry’s gift to Draco was a set of antique quills that he’d found in his attic, likely belonging to one of Draco’s ancestors somewhere down the line. He knew about Draco’s love of antiques and stationary, and it was an absolutely perfect gift—although nothing could top the gift of waking up every morning to a sleep-warm and lazy Harry Potter. Or having him in the kitchen making breakfast and singing horrendously offkey to the wireless. Or having him—several times—in front of the living room fireplace...

Draco’s tender feelings carry him right through to work the first Monday of the new year, and although he hates to leave the cozy bubble that he and Harry have been living in for the past couple of weeks, Draco craves his steady work routine. As soon as he walks through his office door, he’s accosted by Pansy, who is eating a scone at his desk with her feet up.

“You absolute fucking tosser! You didn’t show up for New Year’s at Blaise’s. If you hadn’t sent over that bottle of scotch, I would have had to send out a search party for you!” She is practically vibrating with the need to ask about Draco’s holidays—Pansy can sniff out gossip faster than a Niffler let loose in Gringotts.

“So, what did you get up to? _Who_ did you get up to?” She asks, drumming her glossy fingertips impatiently against Draco’s desk.

Draco hums contentedly, and smiles as he sees Harry coming down the hall with two cups of tea in hand.

“Let’s just say that Father Christmas was very kind to me this year.”

 

 


End file.
